


when we were yet young

by crocodile



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, loosely set during the end of the dragonsong war because i haven't finished SB
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile/pseuds/crocodile
Summary: These are the gifts Nidhogg leaves him with: a half-familiar body, relentless paranoia, and a hollowness that aches down to his marrow.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 7
Kudos: 100





	1. hard lines

**Author's Note:**

> this is a bit of an experimental character sketch and is also my first time writing for FFXIV. i fell in love with Estinien against my will and for the sake of catharsis wanted to explore the trauma he and Aymeric have faced, as well as the concept of the lasting physical effects of Nidhogg. second chapter has a lighter tone and gets the explicit rating.
> 
> nobody but me edits my shit so please please please tell me if you catch mistakes! <3

These are the gifts Nidhogg leaves him with: a half-familiar body, relentless paranoia, and a hollowness that aches down to his marrow.

It is at its deepest when he is alone, but it is _louder_ when he is surrounded by people - as he is now, shoulder-blades digging into the back of a chair he had dragged into a corner of the Forgotten Knight. The inn is packed this evening with a constant flow of soldiers and Brume civilians taking advantage of the open bar being funded by House de Borel in celebration of the winter solstice.

He fights to control his breathing as he inspects the crowd, the claws hidden by his leather gloves digging into his thighs. There is a rhythm to exhaling against panic that he’s learned over the years, but it eludes him now. The noise of the party soars and sets his ears to ringing, as though every explosion and dragon roar he’s ever been downwind of are going off all at once. And it crescendos, swirling and repeating, drowning his thoughts.

A figure appears at his side, silent in their approach, and Estinien jolts in his seat, right hand reaching for the lance he was not allowed to bring inside. His eyes adjust against the darkness on his peripherals and the roar in his head quiets, just a little. _Aymeric_.

The Lord Commander is, for once, bereft of his heavy vestiges, choosing instead a satin black shirt tucked into tan breeches. A fur coat is draped loosely over his shoulders, and Estinien is struck by the way the fur shifts like a living animal as Aymeric reaches forward to hand Estinien a pint. A wine glass rests in his other hand, tilting haphazardly.

“Drink.” Aymeric’s voice is an easy, gentle command. He does not draw up a seat, preferring to lean his hip into the top of the Estinien’s chair. He drops a hand to Estinien’s shoulder and squeezes.

Estinien huffs and chugs half the pint. Aymeric’s hand is warm through the thin material of Estinien’s tunic, grip just on the lighter side of bruising. Estinien feels his empty core thaw from ale and and from a clawing sort of longing, an ache that drags against the inside of his sternum whenever Aymeric does - does _this_.

Gets close enough for Estinien to feel the static energy of his skin, to smell the faint notes of frankincense and cinnamon and bergamot on his wrist. To shiver when Aymeric bends down just enough that his breath teases over the top of Estinien’s hair as he murmurs _are you doing alright? do you want to leave?_

Estinien tilts his head back and swallows down the rest of the ale before slamming the pint harder than necessary on his armrest. He stands and grabs the coat from his chair in a fluid motion, eyes passing restlessly over the crowd. A couple in the diagonal corner continue to watch him or Aymeric or both of them, and his movement catches more considering glances.

“I need air,” he mutters, meeting Aymeric’s gaze only for a moment before striding across the heart of the inn and down the stairs that lead out to the Brume. The crowd parts like liquid, always does when he walks in his armor, but now he has no protection except the wicked scowl on his face and his reputation.

_Something between dragoon and dragon. Once Nidhogg, always Nidhogg._

He escapes from the Knight and into the bitter night air whistling over Ishgard’s spires. The air burns his nose when he inhales deeply and makes his way to the wall behind the nearest staircase to the Foundation. He shrugs on his coat before leaning against the wall, surveying the alley to note the position of each passerby. 

Estinien knows Aymeric exits the inn by his throaty laugh breaking the quiet when he opens the door. Estinien keeps his guard, watching two men five or so yalms off as they teeter on drunken feet. Aymeric makes more noise than he needs to as he approaches Estinien, scuffing his boots lightly against the pavers as a warning. Estinien’s stomach flips at the thought, at the little ways his head’s gone wrong and that Aymeric has _seen_ and _remembered_ these things. 

“Why don’t we take a walk?” 

Estinien looks at him reluctantly. Aymeric’s high cheekbones are flushed pink from the cold and the wine, but he’s dropped the boyish charm he slips into around crowds, leaving his eyes hooded and his voice lazy. Estinien’s gaze gets caught on Aymeric’s full lips when he licks them against the drying wind and he sees the corner of Aymeric’s mouth lift in a smirk.

 _Arrogant piece of shit_. He glowers at Aymeric but does not voice his ire. It was Aymeric’s pride that first drew Estinien to him those many years ago, when they were yet young and still carving out spaces for themselves among the soldiers of Ishgard, and he has always savored the moments alone when Aymeric stops playing at philanthropic politician and shows his true face. 

To admit so would break the spell, and so Estinien turns on his heel and marches up the slick wooden staircase to the plaza of the Foundation. Aymeric’s laugh follows him up.

He stops at the top of the steps long enough for Aymeric to reach him, and settles in at his right side. More things they will not voice - the way Aymeric covers his stomach with his right hand when strangers pass by too closely, the way Estinien wordlessly covering his flank lets Aymeric drop his hand more easily. They wander the Foundation in silent camaraderie, Aymeric studying each passerby as though to memorize every face, and Estinien trying to keep his eyes forward and not on the towering skyline. 

They find themselves at the edge of the Skysteel Manufactory. Aymeric leans heavily over the railing, staring intently into the abyss beneath Ishgard. Estinien watches him in brief moments, finding himself looking over their shoulders every few seconds. He does not look into the abyss. He does not want to feel something looking back.

“’stinien.” Aymeric drawls his name, and Estinien turns back to him to see Aymeric with his chin in his palm, braced against the railing to face him. His irises have gone dark and glittering and Estinien absently drives his fingernails into his own thigh to focus. “Do you want to get a warm drink?”

“Fool,” Estinien rumbles, not unkindly. “You’re not fucking tricking me into paying. How much gil did you spend on that damned open bar?”

Aymeric huffs a laugh, head lolling to the side as he watches Estinien. “Thankfully, I stocked my own cellar before deciding to bankrupt myself.”

He catches his bottom lip with his teeth and scapes it as it releases.

 _Oh_ , Estinien thinks dumbly. How long has it been since they’ve been here - Aymeric loose with alcohol and his wine-dark eyes trained somewhere low on Estinien’s face, and Estinien’s skin burning to be touched, and the smell of cinnamon on the air when Aymeric reaches out his free hand to adjust the neck of Estinien’s shirt? _Years_ , a hungry ghost speaks in Estinien’s head. Years since they were yet young and unabashed with their hands and their mouths, since before Ishgard was lost to endless winter and Estinien’s insides turned to ice.

Unsteady footsteps shatter the heavy air, and both Aymeric and Estinien spin to see a drunken intruder. An unfamiliar Elezen squints his eyes at Estinien, mouth open and breaths loud. “You,” the man growls through a mouth of marbles. “You that Azure Dragoon what went crazy, eh? Got possessed by the big wyrm and went on a fucking killing spree, di’nt ya?” The man spits at his feet. 

Estinien throws out his arm reflexively to catch Aymeric in the chest when Aymeric draws himself up to his full height and makes to grab the man. He sees out his peripheral that Aymeric turns to scowl at him but does not press forward. “Aye, I’m the crazy fucking dragoon.” His voice is mild but the words still roll from his mouth like gravel.

“And you’re out here making moon eyes at the bastard Lord Commander? I oughtta throw you both over the edge and clean the whole city up.”

The man takes one step forward. Estinien drops his arm from Aymeric’s chest and, without breaking eye contact with the stranger, pulls his glove off his right hand, exposing the blackened claws of his fingers. The man visibly focuses, eyes squinting and widening. And then Estinien grins wickedly, baring his extra set of razor-like canines, and the man sputters unintelligibly before stumbling backwards and taking off across the Foundation.

Aymeric sighs and leans his shoulder against Estinien, eyes closed and head down. Estinien raises his eyebrows at the top of Aymeric’s head as the silence stretches before finally nudging him. “I wanted to gut him,” Aymeric admits softly, voice carefully devoid of emotion. 

Estinien scoffs and allows himself a moment of weakness to run his hand roughly through Aymeric’s hair. “I’ve a reputation to upkeep and I don’t need _you_ of all people showing me up.” 

Aymeric makes a strangled noise in his throat and looks over at Estinien with wide eyes. Estinien startles back at the nearness of their faces and feels a sudden rush of adrenaline flooding down his forearms and into his stomach, his fingers still tangled in those dark strands of hair. He pulls away entirely, putting a good two yalms between them, and gives Aymeric the briefest of smiles. 

“We’ve both places to be, Lord Commander. I’ve got more trouble to make, and your crowd of mewling fans will surely have noticed your absence by now.” Aymeric flinches at the comment and Estinien finds relief in the shame that fills his ribcage. 

_This is how things should be. Only one of us can be a saint, and my hands would stain him._ Estinien turns his back to Aymeric and says a quick “walk safely” over his shoulder before leaping to the roof of the manufactory.

He pretends not to notice from his distant perch the several minutes Aymeric droops over the railing, gazing into the aether void, before finally leaving for the Pillars.

* * *

Aymeric sits on the rug at the foot of his bed until the winter sky turns a pale pink. His stomach is sick with a longing that he swallows down before it can spill out of his mouth. 

Hands flexing on his knees, Aymeric breathes against the nausea that wells whenever he pictures Estinien's eyes upon him without even a hint of warmth. The open window at his side lets in whorls of frost that find their way beneath the neck of his shirt, and he takes comfort in the numbness. 

_One day he will find his fire again on the skin of someone else. This is all you deserve to ask for. You let them take him and empty him. This is your atonement._

Aymeric smiles with his eyes closed tight, absently digging his knuckles into the scar across his stomach until the pain cauterizes his thoughts shut.


	2. heavy earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien knows firsthand Ishgard's methods of reeducation and interrogation. All dragoons know, and the Azure Dragoon most of all. He had not thought of Aymeric knowing too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter got WAY away from me wow. i feel questionable about this one but if i don't post it now anxiety will consume me and prevent me from ever uploading again
> 
> also i have NO idea how long Aymeric was actually in the Vault but narratively it must have been a few days at the very least??
> 
> please note that i had to update this work's warnings for this chapter to include implied, past non-con. there is mention of torture based on in-game notes about the training Ishgardian knights/dragoons go through, and while i didn't mean for it to sound so i added a warning just to be safe.

Aymeric is being buried alive.

He kneels with one shin flat to the ground and his hands braced against his other knee. The air underground is heavy and wet with the smell of piss and iced earth. His breathing comes in ragged pants through his chest.

The noise above his head is distant but reassuring - chirugeons sounding orders, the restless whistling of battle chocobos. He drops his forehead to his knee, feeling the blood on the backs of his hands smear onto his face.

The walls are steady. The ceiling is not falling. The floor is dirt and not stone. The cut ropes on the ground are not metal chains. And still he feels like any moment the small room will crumble and hold him down here until the oxygen runs scarce and his mind falls to darkness.

 _They are safe. They are free._ He repeats this in his head, a lifeline he has but a slippery grasp on. The 2nd Squadron of Ishgard's easternmost garrison has been wrested from the grasp of the Garlean battalion testing Eorzea's northeast edge. The squadron is above ground, free of this makeshift gaol dug beneath a disguised Garlean outpost. And still his hands are covered in the blood of young knights who had balked from him with dead eyes. 

Heavy boots clank down the wood stairs. Aymeric knows by the faint scent of leather and sweat and pine tar soap that Estinien has found his way into the cellar. He can’t bring himself to look up, even when Estinien's boots come to a halt right before him, but his shoulders hunch forward towards him instinctually.

He hears Estinien sigh heavily before crouching. A cold gauntlet catches his chin and lifts his head gently but firmly. Aymeric doesn't fight him off, eyes fixed over Estinien's shoulder.

"No more of this." Estinien's rumble buries its way into Aymeric's chest, where it coils up comfortably. Familiar. "Let's go."

Aymeric grunts and doesn't move. The edges of his vision, every place where Estinien is not, are still dark and he cannot tell if he's about to pass out or if the light is slowly being cut out of the room.

Estinien clicks his tongue in irritation, grabs Aymeric by his armpits, and drags them both upright. Aymeric lets himself be shuffled like a rag doll, Estinien shoving his shoulder beneath Aymeric's and pulling him upstairs.

The waning sunlight is blinding. Aymeric blinks against the sting and lifts himself off of Estinien. Glancing around owlishly, he finds the rescue platoon leader. "I'm headed back to garrison." The clarity of his own voice surprises him, as though the Lord Commander is someone else speaking through him. "Burn this building before you leave. Keep switching out your scouts. If you see Garlean forces, fall back and do not engage."

Estinien waits for him, holding the reins of two chocobos. His helm is held beneath his arm, but his face is completely inscrutable despite its bareness. Aymeric takes a set of reins without meeting his icy stare.

They ride back to the Ishgardian garrison in silence. Aymeric has never been more relieved for Estinien's reticence. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, even after his breathing slows and his vision clears. Their chocobos ride fast and hard, feeding off the sour air.

Aymeric realizes how dirty he is when they reach the encampment and hand over their mounts. There's blood gunked onto his chocobo's barding and neck feathers, and he gives her a sheepish pat before Estinien grabs his wrist and drags him off.

The mood in the encampment is the strange mix of tired and triumphant that comes after a hard mission, and the presence of the Lord Commander and the retired Azure Dragoon stirs the spirits of the younger knights. Aymeric nods as he passes the main bonfire, trying to smile, but Estinien keeps his death grip on him and beelines for the First Commander across the courtyard. She looks up from her conversation with the garrison's ranking medical officer, eyes narrowing as she surveys Aymeric from head to toe. 

"Is there an empty room?" Estinien's gravely voice is taut with an anger that makes the hairs on Aymeric's nape rise. 

Lucia’s eyes are glued to Aymeric, but the medical officer gestures towards the door of the women’s barracks a few yalms away. “Last door on the left should have a bed and a bath.”

Aymeric resists when Estinien makes to drag them both to the barracks. “Is 2nd Squadron fully accounted for?” The voice that comes out of his mouth is practiced and calm - a perfect tell of his internal state, he knows. 

The medical officer, to his relief, nods in exhaustion. “One casualty during the Garlean ambush. Two were seriously injured when recovered, but the others just need warmth and alcohol.”

“Thank you.” Aymeric relents when Estinien tugs at him again, apparently having determined that Aymeric received enough information. Marching across the courtyard, Estinien jams open the door of the women’s barracks and pushes Aymeric inside. A few of the female knights look out their open doors curiously but think better of making any comments when they see the Lord Commander dazed and covered in blood. 

Estinien pauses in the hall, his chest close to Aymeric’s back and his hands on his shoulders. Aymeric can’t see Estinien’s face but can imagine the hostility of his scowl by the way a knight leaning in the threshold of her room flinches. “Is there hot water.”

“Y-yes, sir.” Aymeric watches with limbs made of jelly as she disappears into her room, thumps some of her belongings around, and comes back holding a bucket before her like a peace offering. “To - to wash off the blood before he gets in the bath.”

Estinien grabs the bucket and grunts in acknowledgment before guiding Aymeric to the empty room. Aymeric wanders in, eyes fixed on the single small window set in the outer wall as Estinien locks the door behind them.

“Strip.” Estinien heads immediately for the bathtub hidden behind a divider at the far end of the room. Aymeric hums under his breath as Estinien slides the divider back and cranks on the magitek pump that draws from the garrison’s well. “Now,” he adds, with a tone that brooks no argument. 

Aymeric forgoes the empty bunks and drags a chair beneath the window before collapsing into it with a sigh. His fingers are sluggish and his head full of the sound of rushing water as he unclasps his pauldrons and drops them to the ground. He then undoes the now-exposed ties of his cape and tosses it aside. 

Estinien sits on the edge of the tub with his arms crossed, dispassionately watching Aymeric undress. Aymeric stares down at himself, wondering vaguely when he lost gauntlets and if anyone grabbed them before burning the outpost. Shaking his head, he struggles out of his tunic and undershirt. 

His boot are harder and he fumbles at them aimlessly. The room is small and dark and so he turns to look out the window, where the sun is swiftly surrendering to total darkness. His brain thinks of metal bars and chains that cut struggling flesh and figures in the dark with glinting eyes, watching him fight against his bonds like hunters before a trapped coeurl.

The thudding of armor hitting the ground draws his head back into the room. Estinien has tossed aside his own gauntlets and spaulders and, after shutting off the water pump, stalks over to Aymeric with tension lining his body. He kneels before Aymeric and opens the clasps on his boots. 

“I can do it -” Aymeric interrupts anxiously, grabbing at the clasps. Estinien swats away his hands and lifts Aymeric’s calves one at a time to tug off the boots. Aymeric resolutely looks at the wall, face flushing in embarassment. 

Stretching back as far as he can, Estinien grabs the edge of the bucket and drags it across the floor, sloshing a little water as it goes. He draws himself to his knees and smacks the bucket down on the chair between Aymeric’s thighs, startling him. “Wash your hands.”

Aymeric complies on autopilot, dunking his forearms into the bucket and scrubbing at his skin. The water turns pink and then rusty. Aymeric scrapes at himself for thirty seconds, then a minute, picking out the filth from beneath his nails before scratching at his palms.

After two minutes, Estinien hisses through his teeth. Aymeric breaks from his trance, blinking up at him. “You’re clean, 'meric.”

Aymeric stares at him, at his drawn brow and his hair slipping messily out of its tie, at the scuffed knuckles pressing into his cheek. Aymeric thinks how _pretty_ he is, even with the heavy dark circles beneath his eyes and his chapped lips curled into a frown. Thinks how much he doesn't want to be the target of Estinien's undivided attention, not when he's already feeling flayed open. He swallows and looks down at his hands dripping onto the surface of the dirty water. “Every one of them that dies does so by my word.”

Caught off-guard by Aymeric’s flat admission, Estinien cocks his head. The loose strands of his hair drift about his face and soften the harsh lines of his cheekbones. “Every one of them chooses to do so.” 

Aymeric has nothing good to say. He grabs the bucket and sets it down beside his pauldrons. 

Estinien stands with a grunt and holds out his hand to Aymeric. Staring at the floor, cheeks on fire once again, Aymeric takes his hand and lets Estinien pull him upright before the dragoon unceremoniously grabs the waistband of Aymeric’s trousers and tugs them downward.

“Estinien.” This time Aymeric snaps at him, shuffling out of reach before stepping out of his pants and small-clothes. Estinien shrugs and waves a hand at the tub, seemingly content in irritating Aymeric into action. Scowling, Aymeric steps one leg into the steaming water, the flat of his left foot resting on the edge of the tub as he adjusts to the sudden heat. 

This scene is all too familiar to Aymeric - the physical closeness, the stripping, the clinical examination of their bodies for hidden damage. It's the oldest method of survival soldiers have, clinging to each other in pairs for safety and sanity, licking each other's wounds and huddling for warmth. But he’s less used to _him_ being the bloody and shell-shocked one, to have Estinien breathing down his neck to look for a gash on his skull or signs of concussion.

He has _no_ experience with Estinien reaching out toward his leg, thinking better of it, and closing his outstretched fist so tight his knuckles go white. “’stinien?”

Aymeric watches with wide eyes as Estinien covers his face and breathes deeply once, twice. The tension draws back into both of them immediately and the comfort of a nearby body vanishes. Hovering his fingers around Aymeric’s ankle, Estinien rasps, “What is that from?”

Tilting his head, Aymeric looks at his ankle, puzzled. _Oh._ It’s been a long time since they were like this - out in the field, open with their bodies out of habit, sharing the stories etched into their skin. And Estinien hasn’t seen his newest scars.

Aymeric splashes his foot down into the water to hide the fading line cut around his ankle. He follows by sitting down altogether, but Estinien’s eyes have gone hard as he circles the tub and inspects him. Aymeric feels his cold gaze on the deep gash in his stomach, the pale bands on his right wrist, the long and scattered lines on his back that are unmistakable as the lasting memories of a cat-o’-nine-tails. 

“ _Aymeric_.”

He splashes water onto his face and runs his fingers through his hair. Estinien’s voice is strained like a cord about to snap and he cannot look at him for the lump in his throat. Wiping the grime off his cheeks, he pats at his stomach, tossing water about. "Knife attack.”

Estinien kneels behind him and Aymeric draws into himself without thinking. He feels sharpened fingers ghosting along the stripes over his spine. “This?” Estinien asks, his breath hot on Aymeric’s neck.

Dropping his chin to his chest, Aymeric closes his eyes in defeat. The room is small but there are no chains. The door is locked but from the inside. When he finally answers, he is perfectly impassive and unwavering. “When I was in the Vault.”

Estinien is so close Aymeric can feel the warmth of his skin and his broiling energy. He can’t stand the thought of being touched. He wants nothing more than for Estinien to touch him.

Slowly, agonizingly so, Estinien presses his forehead into Aymeric’s neck, nose against his spine. Aymeric covers his mouth with a traitorous, trembling hand and feels his eyes burn. They sit in for silence for several long moments, before Estinien stands, grabs his armor, and quietly exits the room.

Aymeric scrubs himself clean until long after the water’s gone freezing, his body calming as the temperature drops. He scratches for a bell at his wrist and ankle as though to rip the marks of the manacles off of his skin. 

It does not work.

* * *

Estinien sags against the outer wall of the encampment. Every joint in his body burns and a howl scrabbles its way up his rib cage. He grips his own throat to fight it down, claws pricking at soft skin.

The rage that pools in his stomach is familiar. It is the same aching fury that filled him up when Nidhogg felt Tioman speared and dying, except Nidhogg is no more and this is Estinien's suffering only. He can't breathe against the images that relentlessly batter his skull. 

Aymeric, with a chain around his ankles, his wrists, his neck. Aymeric, gagged and forced to his knees. Aymeric with the faceless bodies of the Heaven's Ward pinning him down to the cold floor of the gaol beneath the Vault. Aymeric, alone underground, in a place where Estinien cannot reach him. 

Estinien knows firsthand Ishgard's methods of reeducation and interrogation. All dragoons know, and the Azure Dragoon most of all. He had not thought of Aymeric knowing too. 

He should go back. He should stay by Aymeric's side. But it isn't safe for them to be alone, because Estinien is burning so white-hot he's gone cold. Because he needs to tear into flesh with his teeth. Because Aymeric always seems invincible up until the moment he shatters, and Estinien doesn't yet know to be gentle with his claws.


End file.
